venus in scorpio by Lauren Kayes

Caterpillars slurp the soup of their own bodies to grow
           and I can’t imagine we were told
                       that you have to eat your skin and stomach and heart
                                   to become something beautiful.

I want to read you poetry but your thumb bears down on my lip
           to expose sharp-wet bone
                       and I’m starving, so I want to bite clean through
                       until you’re gushing copper and salt on my tongue.

I don’t, but I think about it.
I think about devouring your heart but I won’t even taste myself on your fingers in case I’m not any good.

I think maybe kissing with our eyes closed means we’re paying attention
           or we’re afraid of seeing each other
                       or we just want it warm and dark and quiet while we eat.

You tell me this is bigger than us—this is longing with the lights out
           and you’re trying to take it all in without drowning.

It seems selfish, taking it all, so I don’t.
I let you have it instead
           and wonder if my insides are enough to drown in
                       and I think maybe you want to
                                   because you haven’t been taught how to swallow.

With every stroke we’re unzipped, oil-slick
           soft light spilling out
                       until I don’t know whose breath I’m holding,
                                   until I’m holding nothing at all.

✱✱✱

Lauren Kayes is a queer, disabled writer of fiction and non-fiction. She lives in Los Angeles with her leopard gecko, Isabela, and can be found on Twitter @LaurenRKayes.